'Every lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, have I,
But all the lads, they smile on me,
When comin' thro' the rye.'
If my Alma smiles on all the children, they'll all smile on her."
Alma shook her head. It was too great an undertaking to explain all those daily experiences of longing and disappointment to her mother. The child's throat grew so full of the sob that she could not swallow the nice egg.
"This is Valentine's Day," she said, with an effort. "They had a box in school. Everybody got pretty ones but me. They sent me a 'comic.'"
She swallowed bravely between the sentences, but big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the gingham apron.
"Well, wasn't it meant to make you laugh, dearie?"
"N-no. It was—was a hateful one. I—I can't tell you."
A line came in Mrs. Driscoll's forehead. Her swift thought pictured the scene only too vividly. She swallowed, too.
"Silly pictures can't hurt us, Alma," she said.
"But please don't make me go back," returned the child earnestly. "I cried and ran away, and I know all the other children laughed, and, oh, mother, I can't go back!" She was sobbing again, now, and trying to dry her tears with her apron.